And Then, Depression Set In

So, as I revealed in my last chapter, I got my happy ass fired. I declined the rent-a-cop's kind offer to drive me around the building, ankled around the back of my former employer's parking lot and retrieved my car, and I drove home.

As I left, I got on my cell phone and called Mrs. Wiggy, gave her an abbreviated version of the news. Probably not the smartest thing I could have done, but I needed to tell someone. When I got home, I told Mrs. Wiggy's mother, who lives with us. She was shocked, angry at the company, and certain that they'd done me a great injustice.

I wanted to be mad at them. I mean, they just sacked my ass. And it was for such a penny-ante thing, too. Not for being hard to get along with, not for failing to do my work, not for substandard work or stealing or smacking stupid managers upside their punkin haids. No. For using their equipment to access the Internet in a way which was prohibited. And the kicker - I had been warned. Whom could I be mad at but myself?

I called my former bosses' boss later that day, to make arrangements to retrieve the rest of my stuff. He didn't answer, I got his voice mail. Left a carefully-worded polite message.

He called back after 5:30 p.m. I could not come get my stuff, he said. He'd have someone box it up and I could retrieve it from the security lobby the following morning. He wanted to know what time I'd be there. I said 9 a.m. We hung up.

And so I was mad at myself. I sat at home for the next several days, searching online job sites like Monster, HotJobs, and Dice, and playing the firing over and over again in my mind. Had trouble sleeping, of course. Mrs. Wiggy was a trouper, as was her mom. I checked in with my friends, they all offered their support and offered to help in various ways. I didn't hear one word from my former coworkers, though. Not one freaking word. Nada. Silencio.

The next day, however, I got up and got dressed and went in to work - sort of. I got to the front desk and found my stuff all in boxes, labeled with my name. Now, the security desk has kind of a mini-lobby in it, usually full of contract janitors waiting to be let in so they can begin cleaning - but not this morning. It was empty except for a couple of guys in suits, who were each talking on their cell phones and looking at me.

Hmmm. Yep, they were looking right at me. Hard. Then I saw the open suit jacket and the pistol one guy was wearing tucked in the waistband of his trousers. Ah. Cops. Once again, I'm thinking, "You have got to be kidding me." Cops? For what?

I picked up my boxes, one by one, and took them out to my car. The suits didn't offer to help, but they kept up their imaginary conversations while I came and went. I almost starting thinking they were not there because of me.

Then I came to the last box. As I carried it outside, both guys folded up their cell phones and and walked outside. They followed me out, walked past me, and got into their clearly marked Wilson Police Department car. Very stealthy. I'm surprised that I did not see the car when I drove in, but I guess my mind was on other things.

Good Lord, what am I, Public Enemy Number One? I got fired, not arrested! I didn't do anything illegal, I accessed my personal email from work - I violated company policy, not the law! I just shook my head. Got in the car.

Then I remembered that I had my 'security token' in my pocket. A device given to me by my former employer so that I could access my work PC from home when I was on-call. I had no use for it, but I could imagine the bastards charging me for not returning it. So I walked back inside one last time to return it to the security guard.

The poor girl looked terrified. She was behind an inch of bulletproof glass like a convenience store clerk, and I was just a guy who got fired - and she looked like she was going to cry. I slid my security token through the slot at the bottom of the window like I was paying for a Slurpee on the way home from a bar, and told her she might want to return it to my former boss. She just stared at me and nodded. I have no idea what they must have told her about me, but she looked like she expected me to whip out a flamethrower and do some serious carnage right then and there.

I left, with four cardboard boxes representing nearly three years of my life; everything except my self-esteem and dignity.

When I got home, I found a message on the voice mail. It was from my dermatologist, whom I had just been referred to by my family doctor about a, er, pesky rash problem I had been having. He said I most likely have psoriasis. Lovely. Isn't that just freaking special?